Axis of Symmetry
by Trickster's Monopoly
Summary: There was no white or black; there was no compromise. No right or wrong. There were simply options that had to be taken. The scale had to be balanced and maintained, and the frail Empire had to be put on its feet. For him, the axis of symmetry was not perfect; it was asymmetrical, and that was something he could not stand.


_It happened that the cat met the fox in a forest, and as she thought to herself, "He is clever and full of experience, and much esteemed in the world," she spoke to him in a friendly way. The fox, full of all kinds of arrogance, looked at the cat from head to foot, and for a long time did not know whether he would give any__ answer or not. – The Brothers Grimm, The Cat and the Fox_

* * *

His tea was cold. The orange cider was now a rusty red, much like the velvet that hung around his shoulders. He would frown or turn up his nose, but he did not, for there was a fine creature in front of him, a creature of merit and trust.

He had to respect his boundaries; for, after all, they were the things that defined him. He could not move out of them nor breach their walls. He could not question why a fence has been raised or why it has been taken down, but simply say that it was so, and that, hopefully, it was for the best. There were fences all about him, outside his tower and inside, and more boundaries were raised.

He, naturally, did not mind. He appreciated them. They kept order and peace, kept the riff-raff and hoopla outside where it belonged. When he saw them, he smiled a little, knowing that he played a role in their upraising, much like a father to his son. And they did their duties well. They did not question and they did not disobey. They did not ask for breaks or complain about lack of pay. They were there, sturdy and tall and proud, like the children he never had.

Was it terrible to call them his children? Perhaps. But he did not have time for such trivial matters. There were too many things to look into and manage; too many things that needed to be balanced. He was a fox, a master of the art, and he could get whatever he wanted without raising a hand. In fact, he did not even need to blink and his axis would spin to balance, restoring lost order and replacing fragility with strength.

Yes, he was a fox, and he knew that since the days when the fine creature was a child. He served it well, respectfully, and she had remarked many times:

"He is clever and full of experience, which is needed in this world. He is precious to me, and intelligent, and so I cannot get rid of him."

She truly did not say those words, but they were the ones he wanted to hear.

Yes, yes! He wanted to hear those words. Hear her say them with that lilting voice. Congratulate him for his invaluable work. He was a fox, after all! He did his job well and he deserved a reward. He deserved everything she had earned, and what he deserved, the Empire deserved more.

He was not truly selfish. No, no. He simply had matters of importance; of great worth. He cared about this Empire as much as she, and unlike her, he did not allow it to wither with aphids like the neglected flower in a garden. He was the fox in that garden, watching and managing and keeping away those who would do it harm. He was not a terrible creature, he was a wise creature, and dare say, wiser than the fair one that sat in front of him.

He did not touch the tea now. It was too cold and too bitter, almost like a portrait of him, and he did not dip his nose to it. He pushed the cup aside, hearing it scrape against the saucer, and sat back. He inhaled slowly, wrinkling his vulture nose. He tugged at his collar, finding it too tight. It was, indeed, like a collar on him, and instead of a name-tag that pointed the stranger to his owner, it was a golden collar, with a ruby firmly implanted in the middle.

It was his guide to the Empire's seat, and he did not forget it. It was his, his hard-earned prize that he won from out-smarting the others.

Oh, he outsmarted them. Just so, and justly more so! He accomplished more than the others and left them behind, whether behind cold iron bars or drifting on the unforgiving sea. He pinned them down in his jaws and defeated them, cleaving their heads in two or sending them to his dungeons to his pet, proud that he did all that by himself.

Yes, he did that by himself. He did not need anyone else. He had himself and his wits; his coin and influence and respect. There was no need for frivolous parties or mockery or silly things that distract fools.

He was a fox, and he filled that role well.

He linked his fingers together, paws laid flat on the table. The creature in front of him tilted her head in a curious way. Her eyes said that she was concerned. The cup in her hands was still steaming, her dainty fingers curled around it like pale vines. Her lips worked, pressing together before opening.

"Are you alright, Hiram? You seem ill," she said.

His eyes flickered from his hands to her face. They were unsure, yet plotting at the same time.

His axis was filled with so many contradictions, some impossible to think together. Yet they happened to him, and they were nearly perfect in their unity.

There was a reason he was the Spymaster. He controlled what was what and what went where, and the whispers that flew on the breeze went through his ears, concise and so, so _delicious_. That was another one of his rewards. Secrets were much like pastries or exquisite dishes on his plate, and he savoured them, tongue salivating and eyes closed in pleasure. If his ears could wiggle in delight, they could, and maybe that was, indeed true. All his parts jostled with excitement when he heard a plot or insult or threat or even better yet, a _conspiracy, _before his teeth clamped on their necks. Their little whistles and jostles and chortles could not escape him, he the noble fox, who had power over everything.

Just so. And more so, slightly, than the creature that sat before him, powder-blue eye shadow and pink lip gloss glistening on her face. Her hair was in her traditional bun, with a swan pin holding its centre. She was in black, as she usually was, but her blouse was blue, a light blue, like the very, very fine edges on the morning sky. And there was perfume, light, that he smelled; that he could perhaps only smell.

His senses were not as clouded as the others thought. He was a fox, and he knew these things. He may not have had children, but he knew women. He knew the expanses they went through to retain their beauty; what they did to convince others they were beautiful. And women, as he knew, were the most powerful creatures of all, for when tears fell from their faces, the world stopped moving and paused and turned around and wanted to see what was the matter with the beauty that was crying. It knelt and apologized and offered and plead and hugged and whimpered, all of those and more and more and more when a woman cried.

And when they cried, he also knew, they unleashed their secrets on the world. He caught them all in his ears and tongue and eyes, and wrote them down. All of them, written down in tomes that numbered in the hundreds. Maybe thousands, if he counted correctly. He told them all to her, this creature, who closed her mouth and waited for an answer.

What to say, oh, what to say. He met her eyes, and said politely,

"I am not ill, your Highness. I am deep in thought. I apologize if I have worried you."

That part was true. He was deep in thought since his thoughts were the only things that were in order.

To a point. There were always the ones that wanted to go a different direction, ones that wanted to go outside the boundaries and frolic, frolic like insolent children and their games and pebbles and rocks and chalk and ropes and beads and braids and all those things that are simply _disorderly. _

He could not allow that. He was a clever thing, and he would not allow such thoughts to break him, to lead him astray.

The Empress set her cup down and noticed that his was cold. "Shall I send for fresh tea?" she asked in that calm, chirped tone of hers.

He looked at his cup again. The red was thicker now, browner, and looked like the sludge from the sewers than the bright beverage he had ordered minutes ago.

Maybe it was a trick. Maybe it was a way to poison him; to see if he could break. But he laughed at that thought as soon as it came along.

He was far too clever to fall for things like that.

"If you wish," he said evenly. He forced a smile. "I have heard the cider is good. Send for that, if you may."

The Empress nodded and snapped her fingers. In an instant, a maid with hair as brown as mouse fur, stood, head bowed and dress flowing past her knees. She was young, not yet in her twenties, for he could see the dots of acne on her face. Her hair was braided too tightly, the scalp stretching with her hair pulling the opposite direction. There were ribbons tied at the end, little black loops, that highlighted her doe-eyes.

He could see all of this, even from his distance. He knew how to spot and analyze his prey. He also knew what this youngling was thinking, as well.

"How may I help you, your Majesty?" she asked with trained efficiency.

Jessamine turned that elegant head, like a true swan to its mate, and said with a lovely – yes, lovely, even he could admit that – voice,

"The Spymaster requests Gristol cider. The best we have, if we have it. And serve it quick, please. The Spymaster will not like it cold."

The maid nodded her head and disappeared. She risked a chance and glanced at him, and he could see those doe eyes widen in fear.

He knew her secrets, and she learned better than to cross a fox.

Most of them have.

And he smiled at that fact.

The Empress was smiling now, the cheeks giving way to chiseled cheek bones and showing bright teeth. The crinkles of her eyes were soft, like rolls of silk that are unlike his that are like clefts in a mountaintop. He could see the brooch at the top of her shirt, the famous Kaldwin pin that was her legacy, silver, with diamonds and sapphires along the wings. He could see their hues glimmer on her neck.

She was comfortable. She was trusting. He could literally taste it, right off her tongue and cheeks and hair and perfume and brooch and eye shadow and suit and hues that shone millions of shades on that pallid neck. He could sense it, he could feel it, and he did not _like_ it.

She was far too trusting, and that unsettled him.

There were shivers that wanted to pass through, like a song through a flute, that wanted to push him off his pedestal. His hairs prickled but did not stand up; his eyes were wary but did not narrow.

He knew far, far better. Foxes did not give away their emotions. They were clever, trickster creatures, and so was he.

His smile was now bitter. Jessamine's was not, and she did not notice.

She never had, and likely never would. She was a vain swan, almost greedy in her trust.

And she had a nerve to smile at him.

"How is Emily?" he managed. "I trust she is doing well in her studies?"

Now that was something he truly, utterly could not stand. It was practically insulting.

Jessamine sighed, not really in defeat, but a tired one. "She finds them boring. She is more interested in naval warfare and battle when she is not drawing or begging soldiers to tell their stories." Jessamine looked away briefly.

He would have raised an eyebrow, but this was not news to him. He was aware, completely aware, of what the child wanted. There was not a complete loss in what the child wanted to learn; she was brash and excited and eager like a child should be, and she was fascinated with war. She slept with soldier's memories and the screams of screeching hulls as they jutted against each other and woke with cannons firing next to her ears. She was not afraid of them, she was amazed, and there was indeed an advantage to that.

The future Empress was not, nor would not, be afraid of progress. She would champion any cause and send her enemies fleeing to their skeletal isles. She would be the might of the world, and the might of the Empire, and she would be just.

She had many advantages, but they were wrong. They were in the wrong places and were used inefficiently. The future Empress wasted and sang and played games instead of devoting herself to the true craft. Instead of reading about warfare and seeking guidance, she drew on the floor, something entirely unfit for an Empress, and she giggled and laughed and hopped up and down like a rabbit, a white rabbit that knew nothing, nothing about what needed to be done.

They were both wastes, he knew. He could not wonder why. He could not _understand _why. There were options! There were benefits if they were just used _correctly_.

And they were not. He could not stand that. Not at all.

Jessamine looked to him for answers. "Sometimes I wonder...when the time comes, will she be a good Empress? I worry about her. There are so many things that entail with regency and whatnot..."

_There is_, he growled inwardly. _She wastes it all. Every shred of it_.

"...that I am afraid that she will not be ready. She is a child, Hiram. She is tutored by the best teachers in the Isles, and they're not enough..."

_Nothing is._

"...but maybe I am being too cruel. She is my daughter. I cannot disown her like this." Jessamine looked at the grandfather clock on the wall. The pendulum swung, entrancing her. She did not turn when she spoke. "She will be Empress one day, and when the time comes, I am sure she will be ready."

He blinked and unlocked his hands. His collar was itching again, but whether it was from sweat or irritation he was not sure.

It probably was both.

"There is no need for fear, Your Majesty," he said evenly. "She will know what to do."

_So long as I am there_, he thought. _I can guide her. You cannot. You will not. Nor will anyone else._

Jessamine smiled again, softer this time. "I should know better than to doubt you, Hiram. You are my closest ally, and one of my most trusted friends. I know that if anything would happen, or if something should happen, you will be the first to know." She rested a hand on the table. "You are a rare kind in this world. You are clever and experienced, things that are much esteemed."

_I know that already, _he thought haughtily. But he did not let it show. He never had. He knew better.

"Thank you, Your Majesty, but there is no need for your compliments. I am here to serve the Empire, and you most of all. You and I know each other well. There are no boundaries between us."

Now he smiled, but it was not as graceful or beautiful as hers. It was almost vile, toothy and hard like a vulture's, ready to pick at a corpse or bone or marrow to get the juices. His smile was cruel, but it was a trained smile. It was meant to fool. It was truly a vulture's smile.

Or a fox's. That would be better.

His cider arrived. It was another girl, blonde with freckles and blue-green eyes. Her hair was also braided, but it was done in a bun, resembling a honey-glazed roll out of an oven. She held the tray beneath her splayed fingers and set it down, making sure it does not make a sound. She bowed once to the Empress, giving her full attention, and turned and curtsied to him. Like the other, she only looked up once, and he could see her knees wobble, like stilts ready to crack. She spun and left, quicker now since she faced his scrutiny.

He knew her, as well. He knew them all, all their faults and secrets and tricks. He wrote them down, memorized them, and hid them in his sleeve or coat or hat or pocket. Or he didn't hide them at all and instead broadcasted them to famished ears and eyes and tongues and bodies that adored secrets. They all found their way to his foxhole.

Sometimes, he did have to move to hear them. He just knew.

His new cup was in front of him. In it, he could see his reflection ripple as the cup shook in his hands.

No, that was not shaking. Nor was it trembling. It was preparation. He was not afraid of anything because he could ensnare it before it got loose. Fear was not in his axis and it was not in his boundaries.

It was nothing.

But it was there in his shaking hands, and he could not deny it.

Jessamine could not ignore it, either. But she did not comment on it.

He willed her not to. He would not have her condemn him. She was a hypocrite, and he was not.

She was a pretty creature, a curious cat willing to touch new ground.

He was a fox, and he scouted before he moved.

He heard her speak. He waited.

For a while he debated to himself whether he should give an answer or not.

Foxes did not mingle with cats.

Nobles did not mingle with flea-ridden pests.

He did not. She did.

He still debated on an answer.

* * *

_The first chapter in a mini-saga highlighting Hiram Burrows. He is one of my favourite characters and I find that he has a lot of motives. He isn't given much depth, so I hope that this will. The first chapter in a series, each one will focus on an animal, the majority being devouring types, that represent different moods and thought-types. Some are so perfect for Burrows that they beg to be written. _

_Et voila! Enjoy! _


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